


Why do we fall

by siehn



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Homeless Bucky, M/M, post-ws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-20 23:23:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1529558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siehn/pseuds/siehn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After D.C., the Winter Soldier goes home, the long way 'round.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why do we fall

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely sure what this is. I literally wrote it in one three-hour sitting because I couldn't not. 
> 
> It was supposed to be a Bucky-finding-Steve fic, and I suppose it kind of is, still, but I've always believed that Bucky needs to find himself, first. 
> 
> Slash if you've got the goggles, otherwise just kinda...Gen. Mostly?

After dragging a Captain onto the shore of the Potomac, the Winter Soldier spends months wandering aimlessly. He no longer has a mission; doesn't check the local papers for orders, and doesn't go back to the museum after the first time. The information there did little other than give him a name, and a face; a history that doesn't feel like it belongs to him. All he knows is gone; orders, purpose, and the comfort of knowing nothing beyond what he's meant to. The Captain took that away from him, first on the bridge, and he remembers it now: the _knowing_ ; afterwards, on the hellicarrier with his refusal to fight, spouting off names that belong to the dead, and words that split his mind open and leave him bleeding. 

He should have killed him, parts of him think on the nights he leans back against the wall in an alley that's too familiar for all that he doesn't remember it, head pressed hard into metal and flesh hands because it hurts too damn bad to move. He knows there are people looking for him, on both sides of this new war he never got a choice in, but if he's able to make a choice now, he's choosing to stay out of it. The leash is gone, the muzzle, the mask; all of it, and he's exhausted in a way he's never been. He doesn't know what the heaviness in his chest means, why there are times when he can't seem to control his own breathing, others when he wants to scream into the night, and lash out at anything that moves. The Winter Soldier has had control instilled in him from the moment he woke, trained to perfection as the weapon that would shape the century. He snorts at the thought, fingers tugging restlessly at the strands of his hair because his head aches, and the blank spots in his memory are more frustrating than knowing nothing at all. 

He thinks he'd rather know nothing, than know part of being a man. He'd rather know nothing than remember being a _good_ man. 

He burrows down into his stolen coat, and pretends he doesn't feel the ice of cryo-freeze in his bones, and the nights pass the same for months on end. 

The slow turning of summer days into the colors of autumn bring more memories with them. Walking the streets of Brooklyn leaves him heavy with the weight of the city's history on his shoulders, his own history in the city dragging him down with it. There's nowhere to turn where a flash of blond hair, and summer-blue eyes don't catch his attention like a ghost haunting him, calling out to the man tangled up with the weapon. The city has changed since the blond haired boy ran headlong into fights, but there are still places to be found where his blood lingers long in the cement, a fading memory standing it's ground, there. The man who used to be the Winter Soldier learns more about the Captain he left on a riverbank than he does himself, but he thinks that's how it's supposed to be. 

Maybe it explains why his voice was the one thing to make it through so many years of mental re-programming, why he, of all the Soldier's targets, lived. Or maybe it's more, why the Soldier didn't kill him, of all targets; he remembers the look in the Captain's eyes, the way he'd clearly been willing to die that day. The thought of it makes him flinch, something hot and raw flaring in his stomach against the idea, and his sleep is always interrupted by four gunshots, and _'I'm with you 'till the end of the line.'_

There's also _'then finish it'_ , but he tries not to think of that, of the defeat in those summer-blue eyes that parts of him know better that he knows himself. He doesn't deny remembering Steve; remembering a dumb kid from Brooklyn who was too brave for his own good, remembering sitting at a bedside, tight with worry, and listening to breaths that sounded too weak and hard to draw. He doesn't know why he remembers these things, instead of others, but there's some comfort to be found in the memory of a warm body leaning against him, standing at his side; of warm laughter, and summer eyes. It drives away the cold he feels near-constantly, allows for some kind of rest when he can't seem to close his eyes without blood and pain stalking his sleep. 

He goes to the soup kitchen for food because there's only so much he can steal, and sometimes it just isn't worth the effort. It's hard at first, to make himself eat the food on the tray in front of him, some instinct, real or programmed, telling him not to trust it. He finally manages to stuff a roll into his mouth one day, completely out of spite to the voice in his head, and his hunger finally makes itself known with the way it twists his gut, and claws at his insides. He's still breathing hard by the time he finishes what's on his plate, metal fingers gripping his own thigh hard enough to bruise because it's the only alternative to sticking his own fork in the jugular of the man sitting too close on his right. He leaves quickly, despite the woman offering blankets and shelter for the cold night; he's used to freezing, after all. 

James, because it's the only name he has besides the _other_ one, the one that doesn't sound quite right yet, forces himself to go back again a few days later, when the hunger claws at him again. He sits against the wall, legs crossed and tense, picking at his food with every intention to eat it when he notices footsteps, a pair of feet stopping in front of him, and looks up. The little girl smiles shyly, her face dirty, and her tangled blonde hair pulled back in a pony-tail. He blinks at her, forces himself into stillness even as memory throws other faces of other children at him; they'd all died screaming in the end, and he breathes shallowly through his nose, watching her. 

“Mama said not to bother you,” she confides in a whisper, glancing behind her where a bedraggled woman is wrangling a baby, and a toddler, and grins again. “But you were in here the other day, too. I was watchin' you, and your hair kept gettin' in the way when you was eatin',” she says, nodding to herself. “Dunno why you don't just cut it,” she adds, looking over his hair critically, and he feels oddly defensive, one eyebrow ticking up. “But here,” she says suddenly, like she just remembered she didn't walk over to criticize his hair style, “I thought this might help.” 

She offers one hand to him, and he stares at her for a long moment before his eyes drop down to her hand and the stained, orange pony-tail holder sitting on her palm. She frowns when he doesn't take it immediately, sighing heavily before rolling her eyes and carefully sitting it on the ground in front of him. “It's not gonna bite ya, mister,” she tells him as archly as a probably-ten-year old can. “You just take it, and pull your hair back,” she says, tugging at her own until it falls down, and then demonstrating by pulling it back again. 

“See?” She asks, crossing her arms over her chest. 

He nods, reaching out to pluck the band off the floor with flesh fingers, studying it carefully before looking up at her again. He doesn't know why he does it, follows some gut instinct that feels less like something that would have been programmed into him, and more like something that _Bucky_ would have done, but he brings up his other hand and carefully tugs his hair back until he can fit the band around it, making a face when she giggles, and looks at him expectantly. It takes a long moment before he finds his voice again, rough and hoarse from disuse. “Thank you,” he tells her, tries to keep it from sounding more like a question, and can't explain the odd fluttering in his chest when she beams at him before darting off back to her mother, gone as quickly as she'd come. 

She always has a smile for him after that, on the days he can bring himself to wander in for food, or a warm place to rest. Eventually, he remembers how to smile back. 

The days continue to pass, autumn giving way to winter and snows, and he spends more time at the shelter than he used to. He's quiet, but he offers his help where he can, if they need it, and something warm spreads through him with the knowledge that he's doing something that might be good, little as he knows about that. They talk to him, joke with him though he rarely responds beyond a small smile here or there, and they don't ask questions. They are, however, free with their own stories when the night is long, and sleep is hard to come by. He learns that Annie's mother is raising her and her brothers all on her own, that she lost her job, and hasn't been able to find work yet. Dave is a veteran who lost a leg, too young to have such old eyes, though not much younger than he and Steve when they first went to war. 

They are all people trying to make it, in transit between stages of their lives, and he wants to ask them how they keep themselves together. His memories threaten to tear him apart, images of death and blood and obedience contrasting sharply with a kid who just wanted to keep his best friend safe. He doesn't ask them, though, just listens when they talk and passes the long winter months in their shared company, somehow feeling warm despite the cold. He gets used to his name, the way the syllables sounds when called out in greeting, or question; the way bold little Annie will tug on his metal hand like it's real, or carefully ease around him to put his hair up the way she thinks it ought to go. He eases into it, doesn't always feel the tightening of his chest when Dave sits nearby, or Annie slips up behind him without warning. He relearns control in a different way, though it's always hardest to keep at night, when the dreams turn to nightmare-memories, and they've all learned not to get close when he's fighting his own demons. 

“James!” The voice is Annie's, is frantic, and he looks up from where he's carefully folding blankets near the old dryer, suddenly too-tense and ready for a fight. She rounds the corner and skids to a stop in front of him, wide-eyed and cradling something small in her arms. “They were beating it with sticks,” she tells him, tears in her voice, and rolling down her dirty cheeks, and he can vaguely hear Vanessa calling for her daughter. Annie ignores her mother, holding out the lump of fur to him carefully, eyes pleading, and he blinks down at it before he gives in, and takes it. Steve, he remembers now, had the same effect on him, once. 

“What am I supposed to do with it?” he asks her, staring down at the tiny kitten. It's pathetic-looking, and bleeding; obviously hurt, though it doesn't make a sound, even when he touches it. One of it's eyes is closed tight, and he doesn't think it's going to be seeing out of it anymore. It burrows down into his palm like it can hide from the world there, shivering, and he nearly scoffs at himself for feeling connected to a cat. And then he looks closer at the girl, eyes narrowing. “Annie, you're a mess,” he tells her finally, reaching out to turn her face carefully until he can see the bruise blossoming beneath her eye. “Don't tell me you picked a fight over a fur-ball,” he says flatly, sighing. 

She eyes him mutinously, arms crossed defensively, and it's such a familiar sight he can't help but shake his head. The memories come easier now, with the thaw of winter, and the smell of spring in the air. It's been nearly a year since D.C., and the man who is the Winter Soldier remembers more than he ever has, though less than he probably should. “They were hurting her,” she tells him finally, lip quivering, and she rarely cries. “Mama said we can't keep her, but I thought you might, 'cause you're all alone, and you look real sad sometimes, and anyway, it looks like she likes you,” she says, hopefully, and James sighs heavily, and doesn't remind her that he has no way to feed the pathetic-looking ball of fur.

“I'll look after it until it's back on it's feet,” he compromises, shrugging, “but no promises, after that.” He fully expects the cat to either die, or run off, but he's learned not to be so blunt with the children. She beams at him, the same smile she'd given him months ago, when he'd taken her stained, orange hair-band, and tugged his hair up with it. He tells himself it doesn't effect him, though he ends up curling up with the kitten on his lap that night, anyway, feeding it bits off his plate, and coaxing it into living. Annie's mother lectures her about fighting, and scrubs hard at the dirt on her cheeks, while Dave grins at the girl's skinned knuckles, and offers tips on how to take down opponents that are bigger than her. 

The kitten ends up staying, perching on his shoulder most of the time, and purring loudly in his ear in a way he tries to find annoying, but can't. He likes the way it's white fur feels against his fingers, the way it rubs against him for no reason other than because it wants to; it's a simple thing, the love of an animal, and he lets himself have it without wondering if he deserves it. He tries not to wonder if he deserves any of this, after all the things he's done, been made to do, but he can't quite shake the feeling that he doesn't. 

The summer brings an end to the closeness, to the company that he's gotten used to, despite the distance he'd tried to keep at first. It's an ending, a moving-on to the next stage of their lives while he stays in transience, but he finds a smile for them nonetheless when Dave announces he's finally found a job, and a place to stay. He still wants to ask how they do it, how they stay themselves through all of this, but maybe they have always known who they are. He's just learning, just finding out what it means to be a person instead of a weapon, though he feels better equipped for it now than he did a year ago. He's still surprised when Annie barrels into him, tears on her face, and her arms wrapped around as far as they'll go. He looks up to find Vanessa watching with a sad smile, holding her boys with their things packed up. 

“Mama says we gotta go,” Annie tells him, refusing to look up. “I don't wanna go.” 

He feels a wave of something he doesn't know how to name, something that softens his features, and has him gently tugging her back enough that he can kneel down, Fur-ball balanced on his shoulder. “It'll be okay, Annie,” he tells her softly, metal fingers gentle when they lift her chin up, and wipe away her tears. He's only ever seen one other person cry for him, and even then, he can't help but think Steve was crying for the man he used to be. “Be strong for your Ma, yeah?” 

She shakes her head hard, and holds onto him like she doesn't want to let go. He feels just as helpless, doesn't know what to do in the face of a child's terrible affection. “But you'll be all alone! I'll never see you again,” she sniffs, like this isn't something she can handle, the thought of him all by himself. He dredges up a smile, and cuffs her gently. 

“Nah, I'll be alright. I've got Fur-ball, huh?” he reassures, hand balanced lightly on the top of her head. “And you never know, we might run into each other again. You're awful hard to get rid of, brat,” he tells her, the smile taking away any heat the words may have had. “Now go on with your Ma, she can't carry both your brothers all by herself,” he says, shooing her forwards, though she squirms around to give him one final hug before darting off again, looking back only once before taking her brother's hand and leading him out.

Vanessa pauses momentarily in turning to the door, offering him a warm smile. “Thank you, James,” she says quietly, looking after her daughter. “You didn't have to look after her all this time,” she adds, and he shrugs, shakes his head because it wasn't hard. She rolls her eyes like she knew that would be his answer, and heads for the doorway. “I hope you find what you're looking for,” she adds over her shoulder, casting him a knowing look before heading out. He blinks, follows her to the door and watches the four of them disappear down the street, and can't name the pressure building hot in the back of his throat. Fur-ball mewls plaintively, butting her head against his, and he reaches up to scratch her absently before turning away. It's time, he thinks, and looks around the small shelter room one last time. 

He doesn't tell them when he leaves, just slips out one night when everyone is asleep, and breathes in the summer air of New York, feels the city stir something inside him that feels older than HYDRA labs, and Pierce's toxic, gentle whispers. The heaviness of the city is grounding now, instead of turbulent, and Fur-ball's small claws prick the leather of his jacket as she clings to her perch on his shoulder; he pets her once before swallowing hard, and setting off down the street, hands in his pockets and his eyes lowered to the ground because it's the easiest way to go unnoticed, even with a cat on his shoulder. He knows where he's going, where he's always been going even before he knew his own name, though he's taken the scenic route in getting there. It's better this way though; he couldn't have found Steve before he found the remnants of himself, and if he doesn't have everything, at least he has something. 

Steve isn't there when he makes it to the apartment he shares with the man who had wings last time he saw him. He isn't sure why he's surprised that they're here, and not in D.C., except he thinks it's odd that they didn't run into each other in the city. Or maybe they were looking for him somewhere else, thinking the weapon would return to it's masters. He doesn't break in like parts of him want to do, sits instead against the wall of the building, playing gently with Fur-ball while he waits, and ignores the stares of the people that pass by. 

It's easy to tell when Steve shows up, the weight of his steps, and the way his breath catches when he sees who's sitting cross-legged on the concrete, attention seemingly occupied with the white cat in his lap. He doesn't look up when Steve slowly comes closer, steps faltering like he thinks he needs to be careful, just carefully tucks the string he was using to coax Fur-ball into chasing her own tail back into a pocket of his worn jacket, and pets her lightly. She swats at his hand with her paws, and he can almost feel Steve's presence, the energy crackling between them in obvious ways. He licks his lips, swallows against the lump in his throat, and finally looks up. He doesn't have the luxury to hide behind his hair, Annie's orange band keeping it back out of his face, but he doesn't really want to hide anymore. 

“Hi Stevie,” he says quietly, thankful when his voice only cracks a little on the old nickname. That same hot thickness is back in his throat, making it hard to talk, and he blinks through the heat in his eyes, ignoring the tears that drip from them. He didn't know he could cry, barely knows what to make of it, other than some strange, fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach and sense of terrifying joy at seeing the man in front of him. “I heard you were lookin' for me,” he manages, lips quirking into an approximation of an old, crooked smile. It fades quickly when he sees the look on Steve's face, those wide, summer-blue eyes, and the tears in them, and it isn't right. Steve shouldn't cry, not over him, not again, and he shakes his head as he pushes himself to his feet, and reaches out halfway between them on some nameless instinct. “Don't--”

Steve makes a wounded-animal noise, something remarkably close to the first sound Fur-ball had ever made, and takes the metal hand reaching out for him as the sign it is, sliding carefully into the space between them, before throwing caution to the wind, and wrapping himself around his old friend tightly. James has re-learned enough control that the surprise hug doesn't get Steve hurled to the ground, or strangled; though he tenses for a long moment before he can respond to the hug, carefully raising his own arms to wrap around Steve. He's thankful, in that moment, for Annie and her propensity towards hugging him randomly, the way she'd slowly waged war on his personal space until he'd gotten used to it being invaded. It feels good, to have those arms around him again, to remember the warmth of Steve all around him. 

“Bucky,” Steve breathes, hesitant, like he can't believe what's right in front of him. The name isn't something he's heard in a year, isn't something he's let himself think too much about because it hadn't ever quite fit, in his head. But when Steve says it like that, like it's the most important thing he's ever said, like it's _right_ , it almost falls into place. It almost fits, in the crooked, broken parts of him that nothing else really manages to reach. “You're here.” 

“I'm here,” he agrees, hiding his face in Steve's shoulder as he feels Fur-ball carefully climb her way up his pant's leg. “I don't remember everything, Steve,” he feels compelled to warn, still not looking up. Part of him still wants to run, wants to go back to the familiarity of the shelter, though everything that made it warm, and safe is gone. He stays where he is, because this is warm, and safe, too, in a way. Though it's also terrifying, and he can't help the way he trembles in Steve's arms. 

“That's okay,” Steve tells him softly, pulling back just enough to catch his eyes. “I'll just have to remember enough for both of us, for now,” he adds, pausing. “I got you, Buck,” he says, finally, after looking him over like he's trying to memorize everything. 

Bucky smiles, somehow, memories of warm nights spent staring up at the stars together, of a best friend who pulled him out of hell once, and then again. “You always have,” he agrees, eyes dropping as he shoves close again, dropping his forehead to rest against Steve's chest. Fur-ball meows quietly from his shoulder, and Steve's arms are wrapped around him, and he doesn't know what home is supposed to feel like, but he thinks it might be this, that he might be there, finally.


End file.
